


The Best Man

by whichrealityisthis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:20:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichrealityisthis/pseuds/whichrealityisthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is getting married. Sherlock is his best man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atropabelladonna1120](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atropabelladonna1120/gifts).



> Because I love sad endings...

John was buttoning up his coat before the mirror, when he heard a soft knock on the door.

“Come in.”

The door opened, and Sherlock’s lean frame appeared. He was dressed in a flawless, crisp suit, his shoes shone, and his hair was slightly shorter -- it looked almost like he had succeeded in taming it for a day. John wearily wondered to himself why Sherlock had to have put that much of an effort into his appearance.

“You look better than the groom”, he said, almost grudgingly.

Sherlock half-smiled and joined John in front of the mirror.

“I could undo some of this if you’d like,” he said, sweeping his hands generally over himself. “Scuff the shoes a bit, try and work some wrinkles into the fabric, chuck the tie, perhaps? The hair won’t last anyway.”

John laughed, shaking his head.

“It’s all right,” he chuckled. “Thanks for offering.”

'You’d still look better than the groom', he thought, looking away. “How do I look?”

“Like a man very few people would be worthy of marrying,” Sherlock replied.

Sherlock walked up to face him. His cufflinks glinted as he raised his arms and proceeded to straighten John’s tie. “I know it’s a stupid question,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed below John’s chin, “but how do you feel?”

John sighed, looking past Sherlock through the window behind him.

“Tired,” he said simply.

Sherlock lowered his hands and looked at John, a look of calm concern on his face.  
“I’m tired of wondering whether I’m doing the right thing,” John continued. “I’m tired of questioning my motives. I’m tired of the doubt.”

When Sherlock didn’t say anything in response, John felt all the old feelings of resentment and pain and anger bubbling up to the surface. He clenched his fists and walked past Sherlock, stood in front of the window and stared out into the distance.  
It was a beautiful day. The countryside looked peaceful, clashing spectacularly with how he felt inside.

He did love Mary. He had made the decision to commit to her, to put her first from the moment he asked her to marry him. He knew that he was willing to do whatever he had to, to see that she was happy. But he loved someone else, too. He loved that someone so desperately and hopelessly that dwelling on it would mean his sure ruin. That someone had waltzed into his life when he had felt his lowest, and gave him purpose again. He had known back then that he would never be alone. But right now he felt so alone he couldn’t breathe. A sharp, shuddering breath escaped him and he closed his eyes, leaning on the window frame for support.

“John...” Sherlock was making his way towards him.

“Don’t!” John almost yelled out. “Please, just don’t,” he said, his voice breaking.

That someone was standing in that very room with him, ridiculously stoic, infuriatingly practical.

He turned around to face Sherlock, looking straight into the dark, wide pupils floating amidst those pale eyes.

“I know, Sherlock. I know this is practical. I know I have to get on with my life. But it still kills me a little inside each time I think about it because I still wish it was you walking down the aisle with me.”

He had almost spat out those last words, and he did not expect the effect they would have.

Sherlock’s facial muscles twitched and then scrunched up. The tears that had collected in his eyes while John’s back was towards him, now pushed their way past long eyelashes and ran down sharp cheekbones.

Seeing Sherlock cry broke John’s heart. He wanted to throw his arms around him, hold him close, and whisper words of comfort into his ear. This was the only true friend he had.

This was the person he belonged to.

But there was a distance between them now, one that could not be breached. A distance that had been irrevocably forced into their lives when Sherlock had tried to convince John that they could never truly have the life they wanted together. Till the end, John refused to accept it. It tore John apart, but Sherlock was resolute. 

John eventually learned to harden his heart. He tried in vain to shed the layers of love and affection that he had so devotedly nurtured for Sherlock; but that had proven to be an unshakeable foundation. Instead, he had to grow around it, draw strength from it. He found a way.  
Now that same accursed man was weeping before him on his wedding day. The world was slowly beginning to spin, and John’s vision dimmed. His knees felt weak and his hands were trembling. He could neither go towards Sherlock, nor turn away. He stood there for what seemed an eternity, having lost the ability and the desire to move.

“I do not expect you to ever forgive me, John,” Sherlock said. “I have not been able to forgive myself. I know the pain I have caused you. The knowledge that I have so deeply and relentlessly hurt the only man I have ever loved, will be a burden I will carry with me for the rest of my days.”

Some part of John’s brain vaguely registered that Sherlock had just told him he loved him, but John was numb. His temporary defenses were in place. Later, when he was alone, he would allow himself to break down, he would cry himself to sleep, shaking and whimpering like a child, until there were no tears left to shed. But now, his trained heart did not feel a thing. 

Sherlock continued to speak, his voice a low monotone.

“But I still stand by my belief that we would not have lasted.”

If John were feeling anything, he would have lashed out at Sherlock at those words. He would have hit him with his bare knuckles until he bled.

He knew that Sherlock would not have fought back.

But John remained distant, unfeeling. He felt like a stranger, like a neutral third party watching the situation unfold.

“There’s something I must say to you before you walk out this door, John. Something I hope you already know...”

Sherlock had wiped his eyes dry and was already returning to his normal self. John was dreading Sherlock’s words, whatever he was about to say. It seemed to have a sense of finality about it. Was he never going to see Sherlock again? John went cold at the thought that this could be goodbye. He struggled to grasp what his life would be without the man.

‘No’, he thought. ‘No, you wouldn’t. You are perfectly capable of being cold and heartless. It’s what most people think you are. But you wouldn’t do that to me.’

John was blinded by a piercing, white-hot pain behind his eyes. He closed them, and felt himself sway on the spot. He heard footsteps coming towards him again, but didn’t protest this time. He felt a strong, reassuring arm wrap itself around him. He was led to a chair and gently guided into it. He sank into its cushioned depths, grateful to be off his feet. He wondered if they would have the strength to carry him past the rows of people he knew were assembling a few walls away.

He felt his cold hands being enclosed in long, thin fingers. John knew everything about those fingers, and the hands they belonged to. He had fallen asleep holding onto them, woken up to the feel of them resting against his chest, squeezed them in moments of fear, felt them ruffle his hair on many a lazy afternoon... He tried to quell the wave of nausea that was rising in his chest, when he heard the sound of Sherlock’s voice again.

“I want you to know, John, that no matter what happens in our lives, I’ll always be there for you.”

John’s eyes flew open and Sherlock swam into focus in front of him. He was kneeling on the carpeted floor, his hands still holding John’s. Before he could help it, John’s eyes welled up with tears. He immediately hated himself for it. He hated himself even more for doubting Sherlock.

“Anytime you need... I’ll be a phoneca—I’ll be a text message away.”

John laughed, bewildered that he still retained the capacity to do so. Sherlock smiled at him. It was one of those all-encompassing, warmth-of-the-sun smiles. The kind that no one else ever got to see. Well, no one as yet. 'Sherlock’s not really mine anymore.'

“You are, and always will be my friend, John.”

The words stung and warmed John’s heart simultaneously. But he felt the initial sharp pang wash away and recede back into an overwhelming sense of reassurance. The pain hadn’t left, he knew it never would. Over the coming years, it would be a companion who would drop by to check on him every once in a while, just to make sure he didn’t go too long without remembering. Though truth be told, he didn’t need the reminders. 

But the more constant companion would be the sense of comfort he derived from the knowledge that he would always have a friend in Sherlock.  
John knew that things were going to be okay. One look into Sherlock’s eyes told him so.

After a momentary tightening of his fingers, Sherlock released John’s hands and stood up.

“So, what do you think, is this better?” Sherlock asked, gesturing to his general appearance. “Do I look suitably shambolic?”

John laughed again, more heartily this time. “Not in the least,” he replied. “But at least your hair seems to be getting back to normal.”  
“Ah, yes...” Sherlock muttered, looking approvingly at his reflection in the mirror. “It was rebelling against the gel I used. Oh, before I forget...”  
Sherlock reached into an inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out the small felt-covered box, handing it over to John. 

John opened it and looked down at the twinkling stone.

“She is a very lucky woman, John.”

John smiled as Sherlock grasped his shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. John hugged him back, breathing in the scent of home.

“All right, it’s nearly time”, Sherlock said, looking at his watch. “You have your vows?”

John patted his pocket to make sure. “Yes.”

“Good. Do you need anything? I had actually considered bringing a hip-flask, you know, but I thought better of it. Too clichéd.”

John snorted. “I’m good, thanks. Found a bottle in one of these cabinets.” He jerked a thumb behind him. “Had a swig or two before you came in.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s apparent amusement. “Well, I’ll give you a few minutes.”

He walked to the door and looked back at John. “I’ll be right outside.”  
“See you in a bit.”

John heard the door click closed behind Sherlock, and for a few moments he stared down at the spot where Sherlock had stood, before clenching and unclenching his fists and taking slow, deep breaths.

Sherlock stepped out into the hallway, stood back and stared at the door that separated them. His words from that day in the churchyard echoed dully in his head...

‘I’ve just got one.’

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest thank you to atropabelladonna1120 for beta-ing this, handing me the title on a platter, so much valuable advice, and for encouraging me to post this little story of mine in the first place. I might never have done it otherwise. <3


End file.
